Once Upon a Time in New Vegas, Money? Money never changes... Options

[Colonel Mustard]

Greetings and salutations, good folk of Chorrol.com forums! I return once more to these fair forums bearing a tale I would add to your vaunted archive of work, a tale of the Mojave Wasteland, a story of intrigue, betrayal and greed, a prelude to the epic chronicle of the Courier. For who were the people who made the great changes wrought upon this place possible? Of course, we all know of the plotting of Mr. House, the ambition of Caesar and Benny, the hopes of the NCR, but what, I ask you, of the little people who made all of that possible? What of those who brought all of these grand plans together, the real unsung heroes of that great story?

Sit back and relax, my friends, and prepare to be told the tale of those who made everything possible, a true tale of the Mojave Wasteland and of New Vegas, first told by the Softworkers of Bethesda and related to you now, in the hope you might take pity on a traveller and grant him food and shelter for a night.

Prepare to hear the tale of Anston and Co.

"Lack of money is the root of all evil."-George Bernard Shaw

Chapter 1

"Oh god, please I'm begging you, please stop, just please stop, please, I-"

The length of wood thumped down and silenced the pleading, reducing it to nought but whimpering through broken teeth. The figure on the floor curled up in a ball, trying to shelter his head from the blows the two baseball bat wielding individuals standing above him would bring down. It did him little good, another slamming into the back of his skull with painful thud.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Michael exclaimed, snatching the bat away from Ripley's hand before he could hit him again. "We were paid to mess his face up, not kill him, idiot!"

He shook his head, before prodding the prone figure with the tip of the bat.

"He still alive?" he asked.

"He's still whining like a little kid, if that's what you want to know," Alex said, nudging his victim in the stomach with his boot.

"Good," Michael said as the pleading began once more.

"I've got caps," he sobbed desperately. "You want them, take them. Just please, damn it, please stop. I'm begging you here."

The nudge became a kick.

"Shut up, pal!" Alex snapped, snarling. "Jesus, some people don't get the hint, do they?"

"Way you've been hitting him, I'm betting he's not gonna be taking many hints all that easy now," Brutus remarked with a chuckle. "Mike, how come I can't have a go on him?"

"You're six and a half feet of muscle and steroids, that's why, idiot. You'll kill him with one damn hit," Michael replied with a dismissive shake of his head. He sat down on his victim's bed, smoothing down the lapel of the dirty suit he wore, before he said; "You know why we're here, George?"

From his place on the floor, George shook his head.

"Because you're a moron, that's why," Michael said. "Because you didn't think about who you slept with, and now you've got to pay for thinking with your damn loaf of bread."

All he got was a whimper of frightened pain, and he shook his head. He wasn't expecting much else anyway.

"Hey, boss, I was doing a little thinking of my own," Alex said, pushing George onto his back where he clutched at his ruined face. There was the same smile on his face that he always wore when he was thinking of something particularly nasty. "You know you've got that saying yours, about importance of the customer?"

"Oh yeah," Michael said. "'The customer is the most important part of the job,' that's the one."

"Yeah, right, well I was thinking, maybe we should do a little more on George here," Alex said, prodding his prone victim's crotch with the tip of his bat. "Y'know, going the extra mile for the customer? I mean, seeing as our friend here thought of this before anything else, maybe we could make sure that our, uh, offending article could be made to think twice."

Michael nodded, a slow grin crawling across his face.

"Of course," he said. "I mean, hey, what does Anston and Co. value more than its beloved customers? We're always willing to do a little extra for them, Alex, always. We've got a reputation to keep up, after all." Alex smiled, before the bat thudded down and George screamed.

"Hey, I think I just realised how good maintaining customer relations feels," he announced cheerfully.

"Value the customer, that's what I've always said," Michael said. "And speaking of which…"

He pressed a few buttons on the Pip-Boy 3000 on his wrist, tuning the inbuilt two-way radio, before he said into it; "That Mr Palson there?"

"It is," came a gruff reply. "Who is it?"

"It's Michael Anston, of Anston and Co." Michael answered. "About a certain individual you asked us to deal with."

"You got him?"

"Bleeding, rolling on the floor and crying like a damn baby," Michael said. "Hey, Brutus, pick him up and get him over here, will you?"

Brutus reached over with his massive robotic arm, the pincer at the end roughly picking up his victim by the shoulder and hauling him over to the bed.

"Georgey," Michael said to him warmly as he was dropped next to him. "I've got Mr Palson on the other end here. Y'know, the man whose daughter you dishonoured? I reckon you've got something to say to him, haven't you?"

George nodded slightly drunkenly, before he said; "I'm sorry for messing around with your daughter, Mr Palson sir. It won't happen again."

"It had better not," the voice of Mr Palson said. He chuckled. "Sounds like you did a real number on him there."

"Well, we take our job seriously," Michael replied. "But believe me, he won't be luring any decent young women into his clutches again any time soon, don't you worry about that."

"Glad to hear it," Palson said. "You head back here and I'll settle your payment."

"Just give it to Doris, she should still be around," Michael said. "Remember, redhead chick? She'll be picking it up for us."

"Oh, your young lady friend," Palson replied. "I'll get it to her, don't you worry about that. Thanks very much."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr Palson," Michael said. "Be sure to hire out Anston and Co. for all your future violence-based needs."

"I think I might just," Palson said. "I'll have someone contact you again if I ever need your, ah, services. Palson out."

Michael grinned as he flicked it off, before he stood up and crouched next to George.

"Now, Georgey," Michael said cheerfully to his victim, who was near falling into unconsciousness. "What have we learned today, then?"

"Not to…not to mess around with…the wrong ladies," he managed to slur in reply, looking at Michael with unfocussed eyes.

"Very good," Michael replied patronisingly, patting him on the head. He grimaced as his hand caught a smear of blood from the hair, and wiped it off on George's shirt. "Now don't do it again, or we'll have to come back and finish the job, and we don't want, do we?"

George shook his head.

"Atta boy," Michael said. "Glad we've got an understanding, eh? Now you keep out of trouble, friend!"

He straightened up, adjusting his fedora before he strode out of the door, with a triumphant announcement of; "Gentlemen, our good deed for the day is complete. Now let's go and collect our well-earned reward, shall we?"

He led the way through the grimy corridors of Freeside's Weatherly Hotel, tipping his hat to the old woman who sat the ancient desk at the foyer of the hotel. She simply watched him go warily, the small sum of caps Michael had given her in exchange for George's room number already disappeared into a strongbox.

Being paid made everything look better, Michael said, even as he looked upon the dingy slum that was Freeside, baking in the heat of the Mojave summer. The sun shone down mercilessly, beating off tarmac and concrete, and most of the residents that could be indoors were hiding to escape the heat, while beggars and vagrants huddled in the shade afforded to them by the ruined buildings.

"How come I had to come along for this job?" Brutus asked as they made their way down the cracked and worn street.

"Freeside ain't safe, is it?" Michael said. "People would be trying to jump us all over the shop if you weren't here to scare them away." "I could," Alex said.

"Alex, you're a goddamn kid," Michael replied. "A baby molerat isn't gonna be scared by you. I mean, three guys going along here by themselves, they'll think we're not too hard a target. But if there's four of us, and one of them's some big guy with a giant pincery robot arm, then they're gonna think twice about it, aren't they?"

"But I like the Strip," Brutus protested.

"All you'd be doing is gambling your hard-earned caps away or spending it to get balls deep in some guy in Gomorrah," Michael said. "I'm doing you a favour, buddy."

"He's gonna be doing that anyway," Ripley pointed out. "I was planning on it."

"Since when were you into guys?" Alex asked.

"I meant with a ghoulette, idiot," Ripley snapped back. "God, you're stupid sometimes."

"Hey, shut up," Alex retorted.

"Oh, both of you can it!" Michael exclaimed despairingly. "Y'know, sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you people,"

They drew up at the gate to the Strip, the mesh fencing and crude concrete barricade blocking their way to the jewel of the Mojave. As always, the small guard of Securitrons was manning it, and one of the machines wheeled towards Michael, the cartoonish policeman on the screen at the centre of the bulky blue robot's chassis scowling at him.

++State your business++ it demanded, its artificial voice harsh and grating.

"Just heading onto the Strip," Michael said.

++Credit check++ the Securitron said brusquely, in reply to which Michael held up a slip of paper.

"Corporate pass," he said. "Anston and Co."

There was a whirr, before the machine announced ++Pass verified. Carry on through++

The gate slid open as the Securitron wheeled aside, and four fifths of Aston and Co. stepped through into the most wondrous place on earth.

Even in the middle of the day, the New Vegas Strip glowed, neon ablaze even in the harsh glare of the sun. To their left rose the vacant Lucky 38 Casino, the sign advertising its famous revolving restaurant vandalised by some joker long ago to replace the second 'V' with a harsh black 'T'. On the other side of the street, bedecked in crackling flames of ionised gas, Gomorrah beckoned with the gaudy lure of debauchery and pleasure, while the Tops promised riches galore right down to the suited guards standing outside. Vault-22's unbecoming façade seemed to both hide and flaunt the potential hidden below, while the Ultra-Luxe sat apart and aloof from its base brethren.

Michael ignored these beguiling sights for one that he found standing before him. Sunlight glistened off red hair, pouting crimson lips smiled at him alluringly, and Doris stepped forward from the kerb to grab Michael in an embrace and kiss him. So what if that beauty was through the work of the expensive, rare commodity of makeup? She still looked damn good in Michael's eyes.

"Hey baby," he said after a moment, still holding her waist and grinning at her. "How you doing?"

"I'm not happy, hun," she said. "You know I don't like it when you go off for work when you're supposed to be having fun. And you dragged the others with you as well! That ain't fair on them, sweety."

"Told you," Brutus said slightly triumphantly. "Hey, I got an opportunity and I took it," Michael said defensively, kissing her again. "What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, honey, you shouldn't just waltz off like that," Doris protested half-heartedly. "You know I don't like being excluded from things."

"Hey, it was dirty work," Michael replied. "You know I don't like you getting involved in that stuff."

"So busting Raider dens, doing drug runs for the Khans and getting knee-deep in mirelurks and molerats ain't dirty work?" Doris asked.

"Ah, c'mon, you were having such a nice time at the Ultra-Luxe I thought it wouldn't be fair to drag you away," Michael said. "Besides, you know me; I take an opportunity when I get it. That's why you hooked up with me, baby. You said I was destined for great things, remember? I had the ambition you looked for in a guy."

He kissed her again, and she giggled slightly.

"Forgive me?" he asked.

"Alright, honey, you know I can't stay angry at you for long," she said. "And I suppose we've got the rewards of this little opportunity taking, ain't we?"

"'Xactly," Michael said. "Don't say I don't treat you nice, eh?"

"Hey, lovebirds," Alex interjected. "You gonna give us our caps any time soon?"

"Alright, alright," Michael said. "Doris, sweety, you got 'em? Don't want all my hard work being for nothing."

"Yeah, your hard work," Ripley muttered.

"Hey, I'm the brains of this operation," Michael retorted. "And delegation is part of leadership, isn't it? Besides, I ended up getting blood on my hands; you know how I hate it when that happens."

"Oh boohoo," Ripley said sarcastically. "Anyway, the caps?"

"Sure, sure," Doris said, pulling a pouch from her pocket. "Payment was two hundred and fifty caps, so fifty each."

"Ah c'mon, that's barely enough to get a lapdance or nothin'," Alex complained.

"Hey, they've got slot machines and roulette tables in Gomorrah, haven't they?" Michael asked. "Might get lucky and win big. Besides, what happened to the rest of your cash?"

"Lost it all in poker," Alex mumbled, blushing slightly.

"Typical," Ripley muttered, the ghoul shaking his head.

"Ah, just blush like that around a couple of rich-looking ladies and they'll probably take pity on you," Brutus said. "It's what you always seem to do, anyway."

"Hey, I'm a charmer," Alex said. "What can I say?"

"Whatever works for ya," Michael said, handing out the caps. "You guys go and enjoy your night."

"You not coming with?" Brutus asked.

"I'm not letting my Michael into that place with you people," Doris declared. "I'd be a single woman before the morning."

"And be with some moneyed up Chairman by the next," Ripley remarked disparagingly, getting a vicious glare from Doris.

"We'll be at the Tops," Michael said. "You want to meet us tomorrow?"

"Sure, outside the Lucky 38," Brutus said.

"Great," Michael grinned, clapping his hands together. "Go have a little fun, fellas."

The three turned towards the hive of sin to drink and gamble the day away, and as Michael and Doris began to wend their way to the tops the redhead laid a hand on his arm and said; "Hey, sweetie…"

"I know that voice," Michael said, an edge of humorous weariness to his voice. "You're gonna ask me for something, aren't you?"

"You know me too well, hun," Doris said. "I was wondering though; could I borrow a few caps?"

"What? What happened to the ones you had when we came here?"

"Oh, come on, it's the Strip," Doris protested. "What do you think happened to them?"

Michael shook his head despairingly.

"God dammit, did you lose them on the slots again?" he asked.

"What? I like those," Doris protested. "You can win real big."

"Doris, I've told you a thousand times, the slots are a goddamn scam," Michael said. "The odds against you are way too high."

"Hey, people win on them," Doris protested as the couple stepped back onto the curb towards the spacious driveway of the Tops.

"Well yeah, a couple of people win on them so they can fool everyone else like the gullible suckers they are," Michael said, before hastily adding; "Not saying you're one though, baby. But we're using these caps on the poker table, alright? That's how we'll win big."

"Whatever you say, sweety," Doris replied somewhat half-heartedly, but as they approached the doors of the Tops, one of the suited guards pulling it open for them, Michael wasn't listening.

He could already feel the money flowing into his pockets.

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Feb 28 2013, 01:59 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Malx: But I don't have the ub3r 1337 skillz to do that. Or New Vegas on my PC. So how would I do so? HOW?!

Vulpes sequence was rather fun, even if it was simply because it went for the rather unusual approach of bargaining with him and then, instead of telling him to mend his Wicked Ways ™ just asked nicely if there's any loot. It's surprisingly fun to write a character as amoral as Michael.


Anyway, more is here. As of this chapter, I have decided that I hate both the King and the Kings for having such confusing interchangable names. Damn them. Damn them all…

Also, before anyone yells at me for getting it wrong, I’ve taken a bit of creative license with the King and made him a little older than he appears in the game. He always just felt like he should be slightly older than he is with his voice, so I figured I’d just roll with that idea. Whatever, it’s creative license and art and stuff. So, y’know, complaining about it actually means you’re oppressing art and freedom of speech, which probably means you’re a Communist or something.

Commie…

Chapter 9

All in all, I guess Nipton wasn’t a complete train wreck. Hardly our biggest success, but we got out of it with our hides in one piece and with a bit of cash as well. As for the loot, well, Nipton was a hole in the ground even before the Legion came, and all that we found that was worth any caps was a laser rifle that Abby picked up which she decided to keep. So with that done, we saddled up and headed back to base. I wasn’t too worried about taking flak for giving the package to the wrong person; oh, we delivered the package, yeah, picked up some supplies and headed back here. Really? The Legion raided the place and burnt it to the ground? Jesus, what are the chances?

The walls of concrete chunks and detritus that surrounded Freeside and New Vegas finally hove into view, the buildings within spearing skywards, and Michael grinned as they approached.

“Good to be back home, eh?” he asked as they made their way along the cracked road they were travelling along, in the shadow of an ancient and crumbling raised freeway.

“I’ll be feeling better once I’ve had a nice cold beer or something,” Ed remarked.

“I’ll drink to that,” Brutus remarked with a chuckle.

Michael nodded as they trotted further onwards. The journey wasn’t long, and the most major hazards that they had to deal with were a few potholes, and soon enough they’d reached the east gate of Freeside. The gate’s infamous sign, a massive construction of ramshackle scrap metal with ‘Freesid’ spelt out on it in flickering neon letters, was still intact, and they guided their horses to the base of it where Freeman Ike’s stables were.

There was a trio of Kings hanging out by the metal gates to the stables, the place’s security, wearing their usual uniform of leather jackets and jeans, and Michael and his small party suddenly got their attention as they approached. One of the stepped forwards as they reached it, flicking his burnt-down cigarette into the dust, and said; “You’re Michael Anston, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement, and Michael pulled his horse to halt.

“Who wants to know?” he asked.

“The King wants to see you,” was the answer he got. “Now.”

“OK,” Michael said. “I’ll go see him once we’ve got our horses stabled.”

“No, he wants to see you right now.”

“And you expect me to take horses into Freeside?” Michael said. “Someone’d steal and eat the damn things before I could blink.”

“Not my problem.”

“Well,” Michael said, dismounting and approaching the King who’d challenged him. “Tell his majesty I’ll be right over once I’m done with the horses.”

The King stared at him for a moment, before he said; “Fine.”

“Good,” Michael said, patting him gently on the cheek. “Go on, off ya go.”

He turned away from the ganger, heading through the open gates of the stables as the others dismounted and followed him into the dusty yard. There were a few horses tethered in place underneath a corrugated iron shelter, out of the sun as a stablehand groomed them, and there was the sound of whinnying and whickering from the barn that dominated the far corner.

“Hey, Freeman!” Michael called. “Freeman!”

There was no reply, though the stablehand gave them a glance, and Michael said; “Go fetch your boss, kid.”

He got a nod, and the kid hurried to the wooden building that sat next to the barn. He knocked on the door, and it was pulled open by a rotund, flabby man in a vest and stained trousers.

“What is it?” he growled past a smoking cigar.

“It’s me, that’s what,” Michael called over with a grin. Freeman saw him and smiled with stained teeth, before he said; “Michael! Good to see you back in town already.”

He glared irritably at the stablehand and added; “Go get their horses already.”

“Good to be back,” Michael said as the kid took the bridle from him and lead it away. “Though I was getting lip from the guys at your gate just a minute ago. What was that about?”

“Oh, yeah,” Freeman replied, taking a puff from his cigar. “King was getting antsy about that little base of operations you’ve got set up in Freeside. Apparently he had some people knocking on your door just yesterday only to find you were out of town.”

Michael frowned.

“You know what he wants?” he enquired.

“No idea,” Freeman answered with a shrug. “All I know is he wants to see you.”

“Eh, fine,” Michael said. “Oh yeah, how are those horses I sold you?”

“Those Legion ones?” Freeman asked. “Managed to flog ‘em off for a pretty good price to some Chairman in a fancy suit and some Khan bodyguards; going on some trip to Goodsprings or somewhere around there, I think he mentioned. Anyway, it was good of you to send ‘em my way on the cheap.”

“No problem,” Michael, a man who knew the value of an unreturned favour, said. “Hell, they’d have been more trouble for us if we’d kept them.”

He shrugged, and said; “Anyway, I should probably go find out what the King wants with me. Probably isn’t anything good.”

“Well, best of luck, then,” Freeman replied. “Try not to wind up dead, will ya? You’re a good customer.”

“Believe me, I’ll be doing my best not to,” Michael said with a grin.

They made their way into Freeside, heading towards their old cinema through the dilapidated half-ruin that was New Vegas’ outer slum. The streets seemed quieter at the moment, more subdued; you didn’t last long in Freeside if you couldn’t smell trouble, and there was tension in the air.

“Lot of Kings about,” Brutus remarked quietly.

Michael nodded, seeing members of Freeside’s impromptu law enforcement lounging on street corners or old lampposts. They weren’t doing anything and there didn’t seem to be more than usual, but Michael couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being surrounded. The King believed in the rule of law and the rights of man, he told himself, and if there was anyone who’d at least let him speak his peace it would be him; the Kings wouldn’t just surround them and shoot them down, that wasn’t his style.

They reached the final run of the Strip, where the King’s School of Impersonation was as well as their own base, the tinny music that played from the School echoing across the street emptily. Michael slung the satchel that he carried off his shoulder and handed it to Brutus.

“Go head back to the base,” he said to the ex Legionary.

“You sure you don’t want me in there?” Brutus asked,

“Nah, I need to look like I’m willing to play nice and, no offence, but you’re not gonna make that kind of impression,” Michael said. “Besides, if the Kings decide to jump us then I doubt there’s all that much you could do about it anyway.”

“Alright,” Brutus said. “I’ll see you later.”

Michael nodded, and headed towards the King’s School of Impersonation.

I’m not gonna lie; I was pretty damn nervous about this whole meeting. The Kings had one hell of a lot more muscle than Anston and Co., and if they decided to kick down our door then we were done for. But if I could talk him round, then we should be good. Of course, this was the second time I had to negotiate from a weak position in the last couple of days, and believe me when I say it isn’t a fun situation.

“Hold up,” one of the Kings said with a raised hand as Michael entered the main theatre hall of the King’s School of Impersonation. “Any weapons?”

Michael pulled out his pistol and handed it to him without argument. The King nodded, and quickly patted his pockets down.

“He’s clean,” he called over his shoulder.

“Send him through,” another voice ordered, and the King who had just searched him nodded.

Michael stepped past the ganger and sat down in the chair proffered to him, next to the King of Freeside.

For a man who carried such authority in the slum, he was a rather unimpressive sight in many ways. His thinning hair, styled in a quiff, was streaked with grey, and more than a little belly protruded over his belt, but Michael knew from the way that the Kings that surrounded him looked at him with respect proved him their undisputed leader. He was in the presence of someone powerful, and if he didn’t tread carefully then he would invite that power to come crashing down on his head.

“You’re worrying me, Mr Anston,” the King said as Michael sat down. He had a deep, rich velvety voice, one that would probably be able to sing one hell of a song if he put his mind to it. “I can’t say I like that.”

“That so?” Michael asked carefully. “Might I ask why that is, Mr, uh.”

He paused for a moment, and said; “Actually, before we go any further, what do I call you? King, Mr King, Your Majesty?”

“King will do just fine,” the King replied. “And as for why I wanted to speak to you, well, as I said; you’re worrying me. You’re throwing your weight around Freeside, and there are quite a few concerned citizens out there who asked me to have a word with you and ask what the hell you’re doing.”

Michael nodded, before he said; “OK. Throwing our weight around how, exactly?”

“I would have thought that, all things considered, that would be pretty obvious,” the King said. “You seem to have beaten a lot of people up, and I had Mick over from Mick and Ralphs and some merchant named Feyman complaining to me that you full on threatened to kill them. Now, back then I thought you might be some run-of-the-mill gang of thugs, but then you put on a radio ad, and suddenly you’ve got yourself a little base of operations just down the road. That stinks of ambition, and there are a good number concerned citizens here in Freeside who are worried that this place isn’t going to be big enough for you people as well.”

“Who’re these concerned citizens, then?” Michael asked, deciding it would probably be good for him to find out exactly who it was that he could find himself up against.

“Well, Julie Farkas from the over in the old Mormon Fort mentioned you people just a few days ago,” the King said. “And Gloria Van Graff was all for busting the doors of your base and letting you know what’s wrong with threatening her business. You should be thanking me, you know; I was the only person who managed to talk her out of it.”

Michael managed to control his expression for the moment, but that was worrying; the Van Graffs, a merchant family armed to the teeth with energy weaponry and with their own small, but elite, group of guards in their employ, were hoping to go after them. He wouldn’t stand a chance if they decided to.

“The Van Graffs?” he asked, injecting his tone with confused concern. “Why the hell are they going after us? We’re not a threat to their business.”

“Gloria didn’t seem to think of it that way,” the King replied. “She thinks you’re dangerous, too ambitious.”

Michael was quiet, nodding slowly, before he said; “Well, I guess I can’t say I blame her. I won’t lie to you, King, I am an ambitious guy. I dream big, and I want to make those dreams real some day. But if she thinks we’re a threat to her business then I’d tell her myself that we’re not interested in selling energy weapons.”

“I think she was more worried about the number of heads you were breaking,” the King replied, leaning back in his chair.

Michael shrugged.

“Look,” he said. “We’re mercs. Breaking heads is what we do. If you wanted us to stop that then we’d have to find some whole new way to make caps and, frankly, I’m not too interested in stopping. And I’ll admit it; we’re not exactly saints around here. But, if you’re worried about our modes of operation, then don’t be. We’re concerned with doing business in a nice, civilised manner, and we’re not the sort who’re dumb enough to crap on our own doorstep.”

“So what’s that mean, exactly?” the King asked.

“Simple,” Michael said. “We carry on doing our work, but when we do jobs in Freeside we don’t touch anyone important to business, none of the Van Graffs or the Followers or anyone like that. I can’t say our work isn’t going to involve us killing people here, because that’s what it’s about, at the end of the day, but to be honest most of our work isn’t going to be in Freeside anyway, so you don’t need to worry.”

The King was quiet for a moment, and Michael took that as a cue to continue.

“Look,” he said. “I can appreciate that you’re concerned, but you don’t need to be. I’m not here to turf everyone out of Freeside and burn the place to the ground. I’m here to do business, first and foremost, and if that means playing nice, then fine, I’ll play nice.”

The King nodded at this.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s fair. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Michael Anston, and I reckon there’ll be other people in Freeside doing the same. Just keep that in mind, son.”

“I’ll be sure to,” Michael said, standing up and extending a hand, which the King shook. “Was a pleasure talking to you, King, and I’m glad we got this little misunderstanding straightened out.”

I paid a little visit to the Silver Rush and talked things over with Gloria Van Graff (something that was even more nerve-wracking than speaking to the King; he’s a reasonable guy, but the Van Graffs are armed with some of the most powerful weapons in the Mojave and that harpy’s on a hair trigger even at the best of times). Anyway, I explained to her that I wasn’t out to get the Van Graffs or anyone else in Freeside, and as a token of my goodwill I bought a nice new plasma pistol from there and offered her a discount on any jobs she’d want us to take up on. I don’t think I made her actually like me, but she doesn’t like anyone much and so long as I don’t have them trying to kill me I’d probably be alright.

Of course, the real lesson in all this was that I wasn’t playing this game carefully enough. The others had been willing to let stuff slide now I’d explained it, on account of me being a new player without a full understanding of the rules, but now that I was in the know I knew that they wouldn’t be so willing to do so again. I’d have to play nice and careful and, God forbid, might even have to turn down jobs if they meant I started treading on people’s toes. Because if the Kings or the Van Graffs decided they wanted us out of town we were done for. Maybe some time in the future, things would change, but until then I’d have to be careful.

But I wasn’t going to quit just yet.